You can dance if you want to … Writers to watch for in this autumnal season of Autumn.

There is reason to dance—heat from hot, hot summer is at its end and Autumn begins anew … like something new all over again. A wonderful time of year where all beautiful things die by turning a glorious colour of fire and red … bits that were once green shall perish! Tree leaves will fall down (hence the American seasonal term “Fallen”) and turn brown and need to be sorted by gardeners and bin bags. Such beauty! Can you smell it?! I can … smell it all … and then some! Such a fine time. The autumn time of dying and decay and the terror of Halloween when children beat other children in order to steal their sweets or gooses-getting-fat or the only possession they ever valued in this world. Yes. Autumn! Put another penny in the old man’s—

Oh, good—here is the list of playwrights to look for on The Good Ear Review in this autumn-like season of Autumn: Vivien Jones (Scotland), Patrick Kinsella (Ireland), Jaki McCarrick (Ireland), Samantha Randall (England), Heather Jeffery (England), Jacqueline Strawbridge (Ireland), Jack Gilhooley (USA), Phil Emery (England), Annie Zaidi (India). Read them, please. Read all of them. For they will come. Thank you for listening to me.  Not many people do.

— Urchin!  My slippers!

I have to go.

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Writers coming up this summer season that remains…

Hello to you.  Hello.  My name is Miss Constance Gutkowsky, The Good Ear Review administrator.  Yes…”Miss.”  I am not yet married.  I hope to marry one day, to meet my prince.  Yes, it has been a long wait.  And many disappointments.  My dance card has hardly been filled at socials and cotillions, I admit.  But that should not mar my chances of marital bliss.  Or my willingness to oblige in the duties and responsibilities of wife and housekeeper.  I’m not dead yet, you know.  There could be a change in the wind.  A sea change.  A change in temperature.  A change.  I’m not dead, you know.

Might I point out that summer is nearing its end?  And there are more contributing writers with monologues to come during this summer season.  Before the autumn season begins, summer season must end.  This is true.

Pardon?  Did one of you say “Now I can see why she’s still alone?”  Did you?

Please look for these monologues by fine writers through the remainder of this season of summer:  Georgina Rycyk (UK), Philip Kaplan & Stephanie Walter (USA), James McLindon (USA), Megan Lohne (USA), Claire Balfour (New Zealand), and Alan Stolzer (USA).

The “UK” stands for the United Kingdom, the “USA” stands for the Independent Colony States Apart from the United K.  “New Zealand” stands for New Zealand.

Please, Miss Gutkowsky, might I interrupt to announce to you that tea is ready?  And there is someone on the other end of the tin can with string that would like to speak to you into it.

Yes, McCluster, I shall come forthwith.

Well, I trust you know what to do now.  Read the monologues.  Do.  They appear on The Good Ear Review every Monday, traditionally.  Like it is traditional for a lady to marry.  Sometimes tradition is broken.  I’m not referring to myself but to the monologue day.  Why are you staring at me?

INTERVIEW: Eye to Eye with The Good Ear Review’s Editor-in-Chief Bexindale-Webb and Guest Editor Phineas Gage

… a tin-cans-and-string conversation.

Tristram Stjohn Bexindale-Webb, Editor-in-Chief

Phineas Gage, self-induced lobotomy and railway man

Tristram: Welcome, Mr. Gage.

Phineas: Sir.

T: … Tristram.

P: Tristram.

T: No.  Sir Tristram.

P: Certainly.  Beg pardon.

T: Welcome to The Good Ear Review.  For now.  Not for long.  Guest Editor.  Merely a guest.  Welcome.

P: An honor, Sir Tristram, sir.

T: I see you have your railroad tapping-down-dynamite-spikey-thingy.

P: Yes, well, I call it an apple.

T: Aphasia?

P: Yes.  Among other things.

T: Such as?

P: Surliness, disagreeableness, tantrums, outbursts.

T: Oh my God!  Me, too!

P: Yes, so you can see why there’s a pall at cocktail parties we attend.

T: Not with me, no.

P: At least I have an excuse.

T: Rightyo, Guest Editor.  Guest.  I have none to offer for myself.  Merely years of abuse at Eton and a lack of breast milk.  I have not endured a massive head injury—

P: “Piercing.”

T: … head piercing.  That spikey thingy you have there …

P: My apple.

T: … your apple piercing your brain like that.  For the love of my God not yours!

P: Railway workers endure injuries.

T: … and profound personality changes.  And your first order of business as Guest Editor?  Guest.  For this week only.

P: I thought I’d rail against the staff of The Good Ear Review for starters.

T: Railway?  Haven’t you had quite enough?

P: No—rail.  Abuse.  Holler.  Yell at ’em.

T: Excellent.  Capital.  Start with our urchin.  He’s an easy target.

Please, Sir, I’d rather not …

T and P: QUIET!!  SCALAWAG!!

A port-side chat with the Editor-in-Chief

Tawny Port

I was dutifully reminded by my staff member Miss Gutkowsky, our administrator and token immigrant, that I have not yet personally addressed the masses.

And so I am. Now. Addressing you. As I enjoy this glass of tawny port.

Are you sitting comfortably? I am. Pour yourself an intoxicating libation. And let us chat. Let me chat at you.

The monologue is an elusive and compelling thing. Monologue. Solo. Uno. E pluribus unum. And with an audience, one-on-one. Mono e mono. Ourselves alone. Yes.

Crafting a solo dramatical moment is no easy attainment for the author. He or she, or heeshee as the author shall be referred to, must engage you, the reader, from the very first phrases. Tell you a story. With a character revealing itself (himself or herself, or himherselfself) whether himherselfself cares to or not. The character—that being “it” or … shit-sweet whalebone corset on the Virgin Mary! My God Lord with a crown of thorns and bleeding! …

An outburst. How unexpected. I am more articulate with bourbon and bitters. Urchin!

—Yes, sir.

Fetch the other drink.

—Potcheen, sir?

Quiet, child! You are unseemly. And furthermore, a scamp and a blackguard. Here’s a farthing. Good lad.

—Thank you, sir.

Boy, haven’t you forgotten something? From this morning?

—I owe you a farthing?

Yes. Good lad. Hand it over. And fetch my yearbook from Eton. I am in a disposition this evening to reminisce and to weep.

Well … there you have it. Monologues are good. Read them. Writers—keep up the wordsmithing.

I am so glad we had this little chat.

Good day.

Respectfully,
[Sir] Tristram Stjohn Bexindale-Webb
Editor-in-Chief